My father is a veteran. He enlisted shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, when he was 28 years old. The Army put him in the Signal Corp, taught him Morse Code, and sent him to fight for 39 months in the Pacific.
Like many World War II veterans he didn't talk much about his war experiences, only sharing a few details. He said he was afraid on the landing boats because his brother had drowned as a young man and that event left him with a fear of the water. He said the Signal Corp wasn't usually in the first boats to come ashore so that wasn't as bad as being part of the initial wave of Infantry.
His favorite story was about a portable outhouse that he built. It was a three-sided affair with hinges and a drop-down seat. It could be collapsed flat to stash in the back of a truck and unfolded to stand over a hole in the ground.
Of course it was during R & R in New Zealand that he met my mother, and they were married after the war. He didn't talk much about their courtship, either, but I have the letters my mother wrote to him, carefully saved through all those years.
My mother was a veteran, too. She claimed she was an anti-aircraft gunner in Auckland, New Zealand, part of the homeland defense. New Zealanders were very worried about the possibility of a Japanese invasion, and many young women were trained to defend against an invasion. I have her payroll books from her time in service.
My brother is a veteran. He joined the Army at 17 after dropping out of school. This was during the Viet Nam War, but he was sent to Korea. I'm not sure what he did there.
There are a lot of good poems for Veterans. I'm going to share two of my favorites, for veterans everywhere.
The first is actually song lyrics, translated from Spanish, I believe.
Tremo E T'Amo
I love you and I'm trembling
Said the woman
To her soldier
Who wouldn't be coming back.
Her plaintive voice
Was carried by the wind
Across the chilling snow
To where her soldier fought.
I'm trembling and I love you
She whispered as she cried
And in the darkness of the room
Somebody laughed
In conquest of the fear
That this love was about to end.
But sweet memories can betray you
The soldier doesn't feel anything anymore.
Too late, his enemy strikes
Suddenly
From behind
Who, strangely, was speaking
Of roses, of wine, of life's other joys
That were promised him in another life.
Oh, how many brides
Will war take away
From that first night's warm embrace?
I'm trembling and I'm cold
Said the soldier
To his enemy, a man, just like himself.
His voice hung motionless in the wind
Heard by the silent audience of those that fell before him.
The second is a poem by Louis Untermeyer. My father could play reveille on the trumpet.
Reveille
What sudden bugle calls us in the night
And wakes us from a dream that we had shaped;
Flinging us sharply up against a fight
We thought we had escaped?
It is no easy waking, and we win
No final peace; our victories are few.
But still imperative forces pull us in
And sweep us somehow through.
Summoned by a supreme and confident power
That wakes our sleeping courage like a blow,
We rise, half shaken, to the challenging hour,
And answer it -- and go.......
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The Music Room
In the house I grew up in, there was a room next to the living room that we called the music room. My father hung French doors to separate it, and built book shelves to line two walls.
My mother bought an old upright piano and had it tuned. She played the piano pretty well. I remember a metronome that my father bought at the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. There was a music stand and chair for practicing the clarinet or trumpet.
My father played a saxophone and sometimes a harmonica. He also had a ukulele that he must have brought back from Hawaii after the war. He only knew one song for the ukulele and every time he started to sing it my mother told him to hush up. I suspect the words weren’t suitable for young ears.
My older brother and I took piano lessons for years. He turned into a wonderful musician. I struggled through the basics, but have no natural sense of musical pitch or rhythm.
We had a record player in the music room, and my father would check out records from the public library to play for us. He loved jazz, but also loved J.S. Bach. I remember hearing the Goldberg Variations for the first time on that record player.
My mother would sit on the piano stool and read to us kids, while we all sat on the floor in front of her. She read stories by Edgar Allen Poe, Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I remember a story about a man getting bricked into a wall in the basement. (I’m still nervous in tight space - and basements.)
One day when I was about 11 or 12 years old, my brother was probably 13, and my two younger sisters were around 8 and 4, my mother called us kids into the music room to read a poem to us. She was taking a night class in poetry and studying T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, so she read us the whole poem – just read it – no explanations or discussions.
It was kind of a strange choice for children our age, but I loved it. My mother had a beautiful reading voice. (Later in life she read books on tape for the blind.) So I’m sure she did a beautiful reading of Prufrock, and maybe that’s why it impressed me so much. Or maybe it’s just a wonderful poem. I’ve read it to myself numerous times since and always taken something new out of it.
Prufrock wasn’t the first poem I’d read. I had a Mother Goose book, and A Child’s Garden of Verses. I had a book of English poems my mother had given me. I had even memorized Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, which starts out:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
And goes on for 32 some verses.
But Prufrock was different, and I think that afternoon in the music room was the real start of my love affair with poetry.
Poetry should be read out loud, for the pure enjoyment of the words, without worrying too much about what it means.
Introduction to Poetry
By Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with a rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
You thought I was going to give you Prufrock. No, not today. Discover it yourself.
My mother bought an old upright piano and had it tuned. She played the piano pretty well. I remember a metronome that my father bought at the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. There was a music stand and chair for practicing the clarinet or trumpet.
My father played a saxophone and sometimes a harmonica. He also had a ukulele that he must have brought back from Hawaii after the war. He only knew one song for the ukulele and every time he started to sing it my mother told him to hush up. I suspect the words weren’t suitable for young ears.
My older brother and I took piano lessons for years. He turned into a wonderful musician. I struggled through the basics, but have no natural sense of musical pitch or rhythm.
We had a record player in the music room, and my father would check out records from the public library to play for us. He loved jazz, but also loved J.S. Bach. I remember hearing the Goldberg Variations for the first time on that record player.
My mother would sit on the piano stool and read to us kids, while we all sat on the floor in front of her. She read stories by Edgar Allen Poe, Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I remember a story about a man getting bricked into a wall in the basement. (I’m still nervous in tight space - and basements.)
One day when I was about 11 or 12 years old, my brother was probably 13, and my two younger sisters were around 8 and 4, my mother called us kids into the music room to read a poem to us. She was taking a night class in poetry and studying T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, so she read us the whole poem – just read it – no explanations or discussions.
It was kind of a strange choice for children our age, but I loved it. My mother had a beautiful reading voice. (Later in life she read books on tape for the blind.) So I’m sure she did a beautiful reading of Prufrock, and maybe that’s why it impressed me so much. Or maybe it’s just a wonderful poem. I’ve read it to myself numerous times since and always taken something new out of it.
Prufrock wasn’t the first poem I’d read. I had a Mother Goose book, and A Child’s Garden of Verses. I had a book of English poems my mother had given me. I had even memorized Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, which starts out:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
And goes on for 32 some verses.
But Prufrock was different, and I think that afternoon in the music room was the real start of my love affair with poetry.
Poetry should be read out loud, for the pure enjoyment of the words, without worrying too much about what it means.
Introduction to Poetry
By Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with a rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
You thought I was going to give you Prufrock. No, not today. Discover it yourself.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
No One Will Worry a Bit
On the front page of the Washington Post this morning is a picture of a young soldier who lost both his legs to an IED in Afghanistan. One leg was amputated above the knee and another at the hip. Certainly puts my own recent temporary disability into perspective.
Does anyone know anymore what we are doing in Afghanistan, besides killing and injuring young Americans? What would victory there even look like?
Thank God we now have a president who thinks before he acts.
My daughter shared the following poem with me some time ago:
by Siegfried Sassoon.
Does it matter? – Losing your legs? . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? – Losing your sight? . . .
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter? – those dreams for the pit? . . .
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
Does anyone know anymore what we are doing in Afghanistan, besides killing and injuring young Americans? What would victory there even look like?
Thank God we now have a president who thinks before he acts.
My daughter shared the following poem with me some time ago:
by Siegfried Sassoon.
Does it matter? – Losing your legs? . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? – Losing your sight? . . .
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter? – those dreams for the pit? . . .
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Paradise Lost
Today I have two poems about change. Enjoy what you have, and if things change, find a way to enjoy that, too.
Otherwise
Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
The Expulsion
Katha Pollitt
Adam was happy -- now he had someone to blame
for everything: shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.
Eve was happy -- now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.
The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).
Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History begin!
The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be rid
of the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were also happy and forgot their names immediately.
Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab apples
glinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves.
How pleasant it had been, how unexpected
to have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.
Otherwise
Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
The Expulsion
Katha Pollitt
Adam was happy -- now he had someone to blame
for everything: shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.
Eve was happy -- now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.
The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).
Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History begin!
The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be rid
of the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were also happy and forgot their names immediately.
Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab apples
glinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves.
How pleasant it had been, how unexpected
to have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Think Watch Think
My daughter has a website Thinkwatchthink.com on which she summarizes and analysis television show episodes. She is really a good writer and quite thoughtful about what she sees and writes about. I don't watch most of these shows, but I enloy reading about them on her site.
I ran across this poem today on the Poetry 180 website and it reminded me of my daughter's television analysis.
Sidekicks
Ronald Koertge
They were never handsome and often came
with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence,
a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys.
But each was brave. More than once a sidekick
has thrown himself in front of our hero in order
to receive the bullet or blow meant for that
perfect face and body.
Thankfully, heroes never die in movies and leave
the sidekick alone. He would not stand for it.
Gabby or Pat, Pancho or Andy remind us of a part
of ourselves,
the dependent part that can never grow up,
the part that is painfully eager to please,
always wants a hug and never gets enough.
Who could sit in a darkened theatre, listen
to the organ music and watch the best
of ourselves lowered into the ground while
the rest stood up there, tears pouring off
that enormous nose.
I ran across this poem today on the Poetry 180 website and it reminded me of my daughter's television analysis.
Sidekicks
Ronald Koertge
They were never handsome and often came
with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence,
a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys.
But each was brave. More than once a sidekick
has thrown himself in front of our hero in order
to receive the bullet or blow meant for that
perfect face and body.
Thankfully, heroes never die in movies and leave
the sidekick alone. He would not stand for it.
Gabby or Pat, Pancho or Andy remind us of a part
of ourselves,
the dependent part that can never grow up,
the part that is painfully eager to please,
always wants a hug and never gets enough.
Who could sit in a darkened theatre, listen
to the organ music and watch the best
of ourselves lowered into the ground while
the rest stood up there, tears pouring off
that enormous nose.
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